


He'll Return

by frecklesarechocolate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklesarechocolate/pseuds/frecklesarechocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lis asked for Cas and Dean finding each other. This is way more angsty than I'd expected when I started. Sorry bb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'll Return

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plantainleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/gifts).



" _I know you're hoping that he'll return to you_."

The words repeat in his head. A lot. Dean's really not sure why, but Naomi's voice has been a constant companion for the last few weeks - ever since the angels fell. And now, sitting here with Sam - healthy, full of life, currently bitch facing at him, Sam - Dean finally has the chance to wonder why this is what he's thinking about.

"Dean!" Sam says, and from the way he's said it, it's clear that he's already had to repeat himself several times, thus explaining the bitch face.

"Yeah, Sam, what?" Dean asks.

"What's wrong with you, dude? You've been, I don't know, mopey, today."

Dean grimaces, because feelings. He really wishes Sam wouldn't want to talk about _feelings_ all the time. Dean's well aware that he has feelings, he just doesn't want to have to talk about them all the time. Plus, he's not moping. Much.

"I'm not moping, Sam," Dean says, and even he can hear the lie in his voice. There's a note of sadness there that he hasn't heard himself use in a while.

Well, fine. Since Cas got back from Purgatory, okay?

But now they have no idea where Cas is, and no, Dean is not thinking about what that might mean.

Because it doesn't mean anything, okay?

"You are moping, Dean. And whatever it was that you were just thinking about? Written all over your face." Sam's forehead crinkles in that way of his, the way it does when he's about to pull up a chair and whip out the puppy eyes, and Dean pushes back, ready to bail the second things get a little hairy.

Except that he doesn't, for some reason.

Instead he sighs and settles back in his chair. Usually he's all energy and movement, but right now even the subtle motion of twiddling his fingers seems like too much effort. He's slumped, his head sunk down between his shoulders, and it's this stance that has Sam really worried.

"Dean," Sam begins, but Dean interrupts him before he can get any further.

"No, Sam. I don't want to talk about it." And what's weird is that Sam lets it go.

That should have been Dean's first indication that Sam was up to something.

Sam launches his campaign the very next day, and it's not really clear what the campaign is, or what it is that he's hoping to accomplish, but it goes a little something like this:

Dean's making breakfast, serving coffee, whatever, and Sam clears his throat and says, "Doin' okay today, Dean?"

Dean shrugs, finishes pouring the coffee and tucks into his breakfast. The first day or so, he doesn't think anything's off.

It's not until the third day when Sam asks the question again, in the exact same words that Dean wonders if maybe this is a pattern.

Every day for the next week, Sam just asks Dean if he's doing okay, and takes Dean's answer at face value. This wouldn't seem like much at all, except that Sam never really asks how Dean is doing, not unless he thinks there's something Dean needs to talk about.

After the eighth time Sam asks, Dean sets the coffee pot down on the table loudly. He glares at Sam and says, "I'm not going to change my answer."

Sam just shrugs a bit and says, "Okay. I'm not going to change my question."

And so it's a stalemate, because there's really nothing quite so stubborn as a Winchester, especially when pitted against another Winchester.

They hunker down.

And through it all, there's not one word from Cas. They hear from all sorts of other angels; they seem to be magnets for them, and wherever they are, just in town for a few hours, or out on the road, someone a little out of place, awkward and uncomfortable in their skin, will come up to them. "You're the Winchesters," they'll say, and it's clearly a question. At first, both Dean and Sam answered warily, but after about half a dozen of these encounters, when it became clear that the fallen angels - for that's who they were - were lost and confused and just seeking information.

Dean had tried asking after Cas the first time an angel had come up to them. To say that it hadn't gone well would be an understatement - the angel had gone nearly puce with rage, and started shouting threats. Sam had had to pull Dean back from the angel to prevent Dean from breaking the woman's nose.

Still, no word from Cas. Sam shoots worried looks at Dean, continues with his campaign and gets nowhere. Dean worries, his fingernails bitten to the quick, answering Sam the same way every morning, and still no Cas.

Every night, Dean lies down in bed, his arm thrown over his eyes and he... doesn't pray exactly, but he thinks. Loudly. He knows that Cas probably can't hear him, not any more, but he still thinks (what he hopes is) towards Cas.

"Where are you, man? I need you to come back." He tries not to say what's really in his heart, not yet, anyway, because he's scared enough of it as it is, and he's not sure he can put words to the feelings that he's buried deep down. They're threatening to erupt now, and he needs to hold it together. Because if – _**when**_ – Cas gets back, Dean needs to have it together.

Days, weeks, even a couple of months pass, and no Cas. Not a word. Dean doesn't want to admit it, but he's beginning to lose hope that he'll ever see his friend again. Sam notices, and though he still asks Dean every day, "Doin' okay today, Dean?" and Dean always shrugs his response, Sam knows that Dean is not at all okay. It's in his posture, it's in the way his forehead is permanently wrinkled with worry, and it's in the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

One morning, though, Dean wakes up, and he decides that he can't go on like this, that it's just not sustainable. His friend is gone, maybe never even survived the Fall, and he's just going to have to get on with his life. He's been in a holding pattern for the last few months, and, though he'd never, ever admit it to Sam, yeah, he's been moping.

He's not quite ready to give up, not really, but he can't keep doing what he's been doing. Dean squares his shoulders and heads out to the kitchen to start breakfast, a strong pot of coffee and then maybe some waffles. He could go for some waffles today.

Sam comes in, raises an eyebrow at the spread (Dean added bacon and fruit compote to the waffles) and asks his usual, "Doin' okay today, Dean?"

Today, instead of shrugging, Dean says, "I'm getting there."

Sam stops. He's halted halfway between standing up straight and sitting at the table, his hand on the back of the chair. His mouth hangs open, and there's a sort of hissing sound as he gropes for something to say. Ten seconds turn into twenty, which turn into thirty and then a full minute before Sam finally lowers himself to the chair and clears his throat. "Dean?" is all he says.

Dean puts a full plate of food in front of Sam. "Yeah."

Sam considers all the things he could say in response, rejecting them each in turn, and finally, he just picks up his fork and begins to eat. The food is, of course, delicious. Dean's turned breakfast into an art, the waffles are light and airy with just a hint of a flavor that Sam can't quite identify. Somehow, Dean has managed to make a raspberry compote without all the seeds, and it's the perfect accompaniment to the waffles. The bacon is crispy and not too salty. Sam tries not to moan his appreciation, but doesn't manage to cover up the sound. Dean smirks. He knows he's a good cook, and now he'll be insufferable about it.

Well, okay. More insufferable.

And so their days continue like that, they head out into the world, continuing to run into fallen angels, most of whom veer away from the Winchesters the second the angel spots them. They continue to chase after Abaddon, who has made herself scarce, at least for now, something that both boys find ominous. Life continues on, and they settle into their new normal.

They're in Ohio, chasing after a lead on Abaddon when Dean, kneeling down to examine a yellow powdery substance at the edge of a store doorway, hears, "Dean?" A shiver trails down his spine, the familiar husky voice striking a chord deep within him. He shakes his head, though, because after all this time, it can't be Cas, it's just his overactive imagination, bringing Cas to mind when he's been trying so desperately to let him go. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, telling himself it's just in his head, and picks up a pinch of the substance to smell it. Definitely sulphur.

"Dean." This time the voice is a little more insistent, a tad snippy, just like Cas would be if it really were he.

"You're not really here, Cas. Just in my head," Dean mutters, because it can't be anything else.

"Dean!" A heavy hand falls onto his shoulder, a familiar weight that grips him and pulls him up. This is a fairly realistic hallucination, Dean has a moment to think, before he's confronted with bright blue eyes. Beneath them are dark smudges, and the lower half of a face that Dean knows almost as well as his own.

"Cas?" Dean finally says. His hands curl into fists as he tries to stop himself from grabbing the man in front of him and pulling him close. It can't be Cas.

Cas is the one who pulls Dean to him, crushing him. Dean stands stiffly, his arms at his side, but he's assaulted by an overpowering smell of unwashed... human. Beneath it, though, is the familiar baked bread and lightning smell that he's come to associate with Cas. "Cas?" he asks again, whispering this time.

"Dean." The sound rumbles through Cas's chest cavity and reverberates in Dean's. He breathes in deeply. The solid presence of Cas in Dean's arms isn't quite enough to make it real, but Dean holds on anyway.

Sam's voice breaks in. "Cas?!" And then Cas... it _is_ Cas, pulls away from Dean and smiles warmly at Sam.

"Sam." He steps forward, his hand outstretched, but Sam flaps his hands and grabs Cas, engulfing him. Dean stares at his brother as Sam hugs Cas. If Sam's there, hugging Cas, then Cas must be there too. Dean shakes his head.

Cas and Sam stop hugging and Sam beams, but his smile fades when he sees the disbelieving look on Dean's face. "Dean?" Sam asks.

"It's Cas," Dean says to Sam, his voice light, lighter than it's been in weeks.

Cas frowns, his brows drawing together in concern. But instead of talking directly to Dean, he turns to Sam. “Is he all right?”

Sam looks between his brother and their friend and says, “I think he will be. Listen, I’m gonna go get the car, you guys just... talk.” Sam claps Cas on the shoulder and turns on his heel, loping away.

Dean’s staring at Cas like a man crawling through the desert stares at an oasis. “Cas, is it really you?”

Cas looks down at himself. His clothes are ratty and torn, smudged with dirt. He’s thin, impossibly so, bones sharp as knives in his cheeks and shoulders. “More or less,” he replies, but he’s smiling. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he’d crushed Dean to him. “Are you...” Cas starts to say, but then he stops, rethinks and tries a different tack. “You don’t seem happy to see me.”

Dean laughs then, but it’s a bitter sound. “I thought you were gone, Cas. It’s been _months_.”

Cas nods, as if he’d expected it. “It was harder than I thought. Finding you.”

Dean scrubs his face. “You couldn’t have called?”

Cas digs into the pockets of his cargo pants, which hang loosely around his waist. He pulls his hands back out again, bringing with them the white cloth of the pockets. “I didn’t have much money. Anything I did have... well, I tried to help people, but it’s also hard to ignore an empty stomach.” He makes a face.

“Yeah. So you’re human, then.”

“Metatron has my grace. It can be returned to me, but... I don’t know if I can find him.”

The distant, stunned look on Dean’s face clears then. “We will. You, me and Sammy. We’ll find the bastard, Cas.” He faces his friend, and then reaches out to him, pulling Cas into a hug. “It’s really good to see you,” he says softly. “I missed you.”

Cas’s arms settle around Dean’s waist, and they stand there, hugging each other fiercely. “I missed you too, Dean.”

* * *

Back at the bunker, a few days later, Sam finds Cas and Dean sitting next to each other in the kitchen. They're drinking coffee, and Cas is looking cleaner, and certainly more healthy than when he'd first found them. His cheeks are just beginning to fill out, and the hollow, haggard look that he'd sported around his eyes is fading. Dean, too, is looking better, his eyes bright and a smile on his face, and Sam's clearly interrupted something: Dean stiffens and pulls back from Cas, his eyes everywhere but on Sam.

Sam chooses to ignore this, instead grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself some coffee. As he has every day for the last few weeks, he asks, "Doin' okay today, Dean?"

But it's not Dean who answers, this time. "We're doing okay, Sam," Cas says, and when Sam turns around, he catches Dean brushing Cas's hair out of his eyes, a soft look on his face. 

 


End file.
